Questionable Motives
by Silver-Ashes
Summary: “You’ll need to do whatever it takes. You know, no mountain too high and all that. Good luck, kiddo.” NeoTrin.


Title: Questionable Motives

Rating: PG

Summary: "You'll need to do whatever it takes. You know, no mountain too high and all that. Good luck, kiddo."

Disclaimer: Don't own them. Don't claim to. All hail the almighty Wachowskis for their ingenious creations. I'm just taking them for a walk while Warner Brothers is counting the takings. Don't even bother trying to sue, because I'm sure that the court case will cost more than the 50c you'll get from my dwindling bank account at the end of it.

A/N: This thing's been cooking on my harddrive and in my head for too long… time it was dusted off and published. It's an idea that's been kicking about in my mind for a long time - the premise that perhaps Trinity went on a secret/private mission the night she met Neo in the club.  
Poor Trinity… I just can't seem to write anything but angst for the poor dear… but she fascinates me, so I blame the Wachowskis  
This is *sort of* a "chapter 1", but whether or not it is continued will depend on if my muse visits again, and if she's kind when she does finally turn up.

For the lovely ladies and gents over at The Looking Glass.

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It's not that hard to remember a time when things were different. When blue-tinted steel walls were pressing in and choking the breath out of her. When two oversized sweaters and all the spare blankets from the mess hall cupboards couldn't stop her shaking from a bitter cold unlike anything she'd ever experienced before.

But, suddenly, it's not the steel, or the cold, or even the silence that's taking over.

She can't explain to anyone else why it is that she's doing this – what possesses her to break the protocol she's supposed to enforce. Why, with one more buckle to go, her hands are shaking so badly she can't finish putting on  
her boots. She closes her eyes and tilts her head back, leaning against the wall behind her narrow bunk.

Her conversation with Tank reverberates inside her head. He's the only one in this crew she could call a 'friend'; the only one she could ask to do this for her and be assured he'd preserve her privacy.

She'd asked him to break the most fundamental rule of operating. She'd asked him to operate for a crew member without clearing the mission with the captain.

She'd given him no explanation other than regarding him with unusually frank and open eyes; eyes without rank or distinction. When he'd asked her why, her voice had died in her throat, and she gave him the only answer she could; _for me_.

Shit – if Morpheus knew what she was doing… or, worse, if Cypher knew… heartless bastard.

_Careful, don't call the kettle black._

Enough.

Opening her eyes, she knows it's time to go. With the last buckle fastened, she stands and silently slips out into the hall.

Tank is waiting for her patiently as she reaches the core. He's got a guarded expression on his face, and the usual bemused air he exerts with confidence and a hint of wit is suddenly lacking. He too understands the implications if this operation is discovered. Again she finds herself questioning her motives here.

But the Oracle's voice is echoing in her head and she knows she has to go.

_"You'll need to do whatever it takes. You know, no mountain too high and all that. Good luck, kiddo."_

She'll never quite get used to the scrape of the titanium jack as it goes into the back of her head. And today is no different ­– if anything, it seems more harsh than usual, with her senses amplified to breaking strain to keep her safe on this most dangerous of forays into the digital dreamworld.

Tank loads the construct, and she cringes as she imagines what must be running through his mind as she chooses her secondary outfit for the latter half of this mission.

But first things first. Closing her eyes, she feels herself descend into the Matrix, and the dangers that lurk therein.

The entrance to Midnight's has always been a shadowy affair – and tonight is no different. As she steps through the door and tries to blend into the pulsating crowds the 'what ifs' begin to spin and merge inside her head. What if he hadn't woken up in front of his computer on cue? _What if he never got my message?_ What if he'd had no reason to look down at De Jour's shoulder and see the white rabbit marked there?

She'd spoken to the other woman about the way it should go down, using Morpheus' tendency to make erratic requests as her excuse for such an unusual mission. Filled with weed-induced goodwill, the woman had flitted her eyelids and gone on her way. But no, now it was time to let go. Let go of it all.

She doesn't believe in God, but she does believe in the notion of fate on some level – so now it's time to lay down the gauntlet. Time to step out from behind this wall she's hiding behind. Time to find out if her belief in fate is justified. If that's him leaning against the wall, hands in pockets and eyes unfocussed on the unenlightened masses.

She'd played this moment over in her head a thousand times. She had the walk down to a fine art; cat-like, sinister and dangerous. The look was the one element she was still unsure of. Sultry was undoubtedly the way to go. _But would my eyes betray me any further?_

The thing that scared her above all others was the she could no longer trust herself to behave as she normally would. Without that fundamental foundation, the ground had shifted and previously solid and simple rules had become impossibly complex and intangible. This was entirely new territory. The desert of the real.

Walking toward the darkened corner of the room, she waits for her image in his peripheral vision to catch his attention. She is conscious of every muscle it takes to keep her upright where she stands. It's unlike anything she'd thought it would be like, yet not at all clichéd. Curious in its simplicity, yet terrifyingly complex.

She moves out from the shadows, materialising behind him as if out of thin air.

When he turns, he is thrown by her alluring aura and conflicting eyes. He knows from his first glance that she holds fragments of a secret, that in some way reveals more about the Matrix. What she painstakingly hides from him, and sometimes from herself, is just what the entirety of that secret might be.

She just stands for a moment, taking him in; so glad to feel so alive, yet so scared of what she's feeling. There's a connection in that instant, she knows she wasn't imagining it and she can see it in his suddenly uncomposed composure.

"Hello Neo."


End file.
